I'm Here With You
by Johnlocked
Summary: It's been three years since. Now it's his turn to fall. But someone doesn't give him a chance...


**Warnings: Well, Reichenbach Fall of course.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything; It belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Pairing: Sherlock and John.**

**Inspiration: ..com/tumblr_ly1r95EYas1r14lfzo1_?AWSAccessKeyId=AKIAJ6IHWSU3BX3X7X3Q&Expires=1327459945&Signature=2GeSE74K42EHXdRTxkdj8s2SeJo%3D**

**A/N: First of many, yes?**

''

He manages to convince himself that it's the right thing to do.

Three years to the day since the death of London's greatest mind, since the death of the world's only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Three years to the day since the death of John Watson's best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired.

He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice of the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Three years, to the day. It's oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he's doing what's best – he hasn't been the same since Sherlock died, hasn't laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He'd invite John out for a pint, she'd bring him tea in the mornings.

Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message.

John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up.

Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for.

Now he's jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he's pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before.

He tells himself it's the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to, but Sherlock's not there to tell him so. That's the problem.

On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – _it doesn't seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon_ – takes a deep breath.

John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall-

-is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back.

His savior doesn't let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar…

John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts.

Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving.

"You were going to jump after me," Sherlock says. It's the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

''

Sherlock Holmes never left his blogger. He never really could. He hated to see John in so much pain and he hated to know that he was the cause of it all. He hated when John cried. He hated when John would have nightmares because he would be screaming his name and Sherlock couldn't go to him. He hated how John wouldn't, couldn't, sleep anymore. He hated when John limped. He hated when John would just watch television instead of doing something with his brilliant mind. He hated when John would spend his days in bed. He hated when John refused to answer the door or his phone. He hated when John just drank tea and didn't eat anything. He hated when John would just stand. Stand in the middle of his flat, look around, shake his head, and then move on.

He hated not being able to touch him.

To speak to him.

To keep the pain away.

It had been three years. Three years since Sherlock jumped from the building leaving John to think he was dead. Sherlock knew this because John had do this before. He would go out of his new flat about five times before actually going to Sherlock's 'grave.' He would spend his day there talking and what not. But, not today. He was gone once and didn't come back. Sherlock had people, and by that Irene has people, looking after John. Were ever he went someone was with him. Making sure no one else was tailing him, and that he wouldn't do anything stupid because Sherlock wanted, no _needed_, John safe. He couldn't let anything bad happen to him. Not if he could help it.

Sherlock had been playing his violin when his phone rang. He glanced over at it. Slowly setting his violin down and picking up the phone he answered it.

"Hello?" he asked his voice sharp.

"It's John, Mr. Holmes." A gruff voice said from the other end. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. John? As in John Watson? His John? No…couldn't be. John was…No. But, then what other John did he know? His body went limp. Oh god.

"Where is he?" he said, not trusting his voice to say anything more. He was already in his coat, his scarf in hand. He was out the door, not bothering to shut it behind him.

"He went into the Hospital, but-" ,and Sherlock had hung up. Not caring for the details for once. He was running. He hadn't run in quiet sometime, not like this anyways. He didn't stop to grab a cab, or to move around people. He shoved them to the sides as he ran down the street. Sherlock was in a hurry; trying to remember the date…it seemed to be important but… he couldn't remember it right at the moment. He knew it before he had left, but not now…he couldn't…

He didn't stop when the cars almost ran him over. Or when he actually did get hit. He was in pain for a moment or two, but he was Sherlock Holmes and it didn't matter, because right now John was about to do something stupid. To him and to someone he was doing it for.

Because today was the day. The day he had made John watch. The day he had left. The day he had to die. The day John seemed to not let go, and it was making Sherlock Holmes run all the way across town, getting hit by cars, and push people. All because of a date. One stupid day that made the world flip and everything hurt. Everything. It wasn't just John that had to go through it.

It wasn't long before he found himself standing on the corner. His eyes looking around for that sandy blonde hair. He didn't know why he was searching the ground first. Of course he wouldn't be on the ground…Sherlock's eyes found their way to the roof top, where a figure stood.

"John…" he breathed. It had been a long time since he had seen him. Even if he had people looking after him he himself couldn't see him in person. Not when the urge to call to him, or touch him, or do something that would ruin everything. No, he couldn't risk John's safety. Not when they had come this far. It had been hard, but just knowing he was alive was better than being their when he was dead.

He doesn't know why he is standing their while John continues to look out over London, then to the ground. He forces himself forward into the hospital, knowing where to go all too familiar. His breath is heavy because he has been running for a long time and he is only seconds away from being to where he belonged. Only, he could already be too late, but he is running around nurses and doctors to hope not to be there late. For once in his life he did not need to be late. Not now, not when things are so important.

Sherlock stops again when he reached the door. He remembered three years ago all too well. The smell, the noises, and the sights. Only when he opened the door he did not see someone who made him cringe to think about. He saw John Watson, his arms spread out wide, as he himself had done all those years ago…

He doesn't know exactly how he got to John, but the next thing he knows he is holding John's head in his hands, his blue eyes staring down into John's. They are wide and in shock. Sherlock is making sure he isn't intoxicated by anything, or has a head injury, or any injury at that. But, John seems to be fine. Besides the fact that he was about to do something so incredibly stupid…

"You were going to jump after me," he says bluntly. He doesn't move when John's mouth opened to say something.

"But…you're dead." John whispered. Sherlock smiled, knowing it wasn't exactly the thing to do at the moment but, he couldn't help it. John Watson was alive and Sherlock Holmes was right there beside him. Or…rather on top of him.

"No…I'm not John. I-" he stopped when John pushed him off. Sherlock fell on his back against the rooftop…again. He blinked and looked over at John who was getting up and walking over to him. Sherlock stiffened when he felt John's hands again on him. They were gripping the lapels of his coat. He pulled Sherlock to his feet, his eyes glazed with tears. Sherlock just stared, unsure of what was about to come next.

"You…you bastered!" John yelled, shoving his face into Sherlock's chest. He was crying, sobbing even. "How could you do this to me? You've been alive all this time and you didn't /tell/ me? I thought I was your friend! I thought you were dead and you let me believe it!" John was yelling, his fists pounding against Sherlock, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make Sherlock shift. Sherlock swallowed, trying not to get his emotions get the best of him, but John was crying and he didn't exactly know how to comfort people…He hadn't been in a situation like this before. No one seemed to care about him this much. No one but John.

"You made me watch you bloody die! You lied to me for three years, Sherlock! Three years!" John kept on, Sherlock could feel the tears seeping through his coat now, but he just stood there breathing him in. He didn't know when he wrapped his arms around John, but they were there, hugging the man closer to him. He buried his face into John's hair.

"I know John…I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He repeated these words for what seemed like hours, until John had stopped crying and looked up at Sherlock.

"H-how could you just…leave?" his voice was soft and full of something Sherlock had heard from the man's mouth before. It was something that made Sherlock grip John tighter and shake his head.

"I…I didn't want to leave John…I-I had to. I didn't need you dead. It was me." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Or you…" He felt John stop. Just stop. His arms slackened and Sherlock didn't feel his breath on him anymore. It took a moment for Sherlock to pull John back and see that he was alright. "John?"

It took another moment for John to come back to his senses. He found his vision again through the tears that had been blinding him. He was looking into blue again. Those light blue eyes. He had never seen so much worry in them before. He found the fact comforting, the grip on his shoulder's annoying, and the movement to step back from him heart breaking. But, Sherlock deserved something.

Sherlock watched John, his arms falling flatly as John stepped away from him. He didn't expect John to punch him. Well, of course he had. He had found there could be one hundred outcomes of the moment when he would return to his doctor. And, once again, Sherlock was on his back against the rooftop. He felt a warm sensation in his nose, he blinked. His vision clouded with the sky above. It was soon filled with John Watson standing over him, a hand offered out to him. Sherlock looked from his face to his hand. He cautiously grabbed it, being pulled up again by John Watson. He stood up and leaned his head back, closing his eyes from the pain in his nose. Broken. Defiantly broken. Blood was running, and Sherlock just sighed. John looked away, not wanting to look at blood mixed with those blue eyes again. Not ever again.

"Sorry. But if you ever leave me again, you will have more than a bloody nose." John said, taking Sherlock's arm and walking down to the door. A smile was on the lips of the shorter man.

"And what makes you think I would leave, again?" This made John stop. A thoughtful look passing over his face.

"You left before. You can leave again." John started to walk forward again, but was pulled back by Sherlock. He looked back to see him staring at John. Blood was running down his face and into his coat, scarf, shirt. This makes John stiffen. Sherlock looked hurt; John figured it was his nose. He tried to pull Sherlock toward the door again, but Sherlock just kept his feet planted in place.

"You really think I could leave you John?" his voice was…un-Sherlock. It was raw and something John had never heard. The tone made John let go of him. It made him angry. He had left him. He had left him to think he was dead and was never coming back. He only showed up when John was about to jump off the same building he had done all those years ago. Of course he could leave again. He was a brilliant human being, anything could happen with him.

"Sherlock." John looked away for a moment before retuning his gaze back to the man covered in blood, curly dark hair, and eyes that could take anyone's breath away. "You let me believe you were dead. You didn't give me a hint that you were alive and here you are! Three years later! Showing up…"

"Don't you understand, John? I had to. I had to leave. I had to make you believe I was dead. I…I tried to make it better. I tried telling you I was a fake. Letting you believe that I wasn't what I seemed to be. I needed you to have that when I jumped, but…you are just so stubborn John. So very stubborn." Sherlock breathed, putting his nose into his sleeve, it was starting to slow with the amount of blood that was falling. Sherlock didn't look at John. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see his face anymore. He didn't like the hurt look that had taken its place.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are one of the most selfish human beings I know." John said. "You didn't just die that day you know… You took me with you." And suddenly they are right next to each other. Sherlock is staring at John, and John can feel his face getting hot because he wonders what is wrong. What has the great Sherlock Holmes deducted about him now? Was it his shoes or socks? He quickly looks down to look himself.

John flinches when Sherlock's hand rises to hold John's chin. It holds tight when it pulls his face up to look into those blue eyes…

Sherlock is still covered in blood when he kisses John, but John doesn't mind. He is shocked, but then his eyes fall closed. It's soft at first. Innocent and sweet. Then John grabs onto Sherlock's lapels, holding them tightly as if he might pull away. Leave. Never come back this time. He is kissing him back, now. Desperate and needing to feel him. Not wanting this to end. Any of it. Sherlock doesn't know what the hell he's doing because he doesn't really have the experience. He doesn't realize that his lips are partly open.

John had no intention of taking it any further, not really wanting to push it. But, Sherlock's lips are parted and John can't really help it. His tongue really does have a mind of its own.

Sherlock is surprised when he feels John's tongue on his, still not knowing what the hell he's doing. But, of course this didn't matter. John couldn't tell because after a moment it just seems right. Nothing is out of order. Everything is in perfect harmony with each other.

Eventually air became a necessity. They pulled away, looking at each other. Sherlock is smiling. Not just that half smirk. No. This is a full out grin. His teeth and everything. John coughs, and takes Sherlock's hand cautiously. He leads him down the stairs and into a bathroom of the hospital.

"John, I'm fine." Sherlock pouts as he is getting a wet paper towel pressed against his face. He winces as John dabs around his nose. He is sitting on the sink counter top in the bathroom. He has to bend down so John can actually reach him.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to break it…" John whispers as Sherlock winces again.

"Quite alright…I should have seen it coming." This makes John laugh. For the first time in three years he is laughing because of someone who is dead. He sighs and suddenly he thinks all this could be a dream. This makes his laughter stop. His face falls as he clenches his jaw. He keeps wiping the blood off of Sherlock's face. He keeps his eyes focused on his hand. He blinks when all the red is gone. He walks to the trashcan to through the towel away.

"John…" He turned to be looking at Sherlock's chest. He blinks before staggering backwards and looking up to see his face. "Are you alright?"

"I just…I don't want to wake up."

"John, you do realize you are not in your subconscious. This is real."

"Yeah, you say that now…but in a couple seconds I'll just wake up in my flat jus-" But he can't finish his sentence because Sherlock is already taken his lips for his own. And it is almost as breathtaking as the first. John realizes in fact that this is not a dream. Sherlock Holmes was not dead and he was right here. It was then that John promised to make sure he never left again.

They walk out of the hospital with Sherlock's nose bandaged up, {John wouldn't leave until they had done something about it. They got plenty of stares from nurses and doctors. They gave the look of confusion. Thinking they had seen him before…} and John with a grin on his face. The two were hand in hand, not noticing let alone caring of the looks they were getting.

"John, since I'm not dead, let's have dinner."

"I wouldn't expect to have it with anyone else." He gave his hand a squeeze.

"Baker Street?"

"I don't know…Mrs. Hudson could have already have the place filled." John said, sighing.

"Irrelevant."

"Alright then…When?"

"Now?" And before John can protest, to say it's much too early for dinner, Sherlock is running down the street to the old flat. John is smiling the whole way there because the three years have been forgotten and the images of the future are already placing themselves in front of them.

Because now things are different. But not really.

**A/N: ALL THE AWARDS TO MARTIN FREEMAN. **


End file.
